


A Death Note Today

by Brynstein



Series: Waiting For Tomorrow [1]
Category: The X-Files
Genre: Aftermath of Violence, Angst, Break Up, F/M, I'm Sorry, Poetry, Post-Movie: The X-Files: I Want To Believe (2008), Pre-Season/Series 10, Pretty much all angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-29
Updated: 2020-07-19
Packaged: 2021-03-02 22:47:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 6,326
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24144601
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Brynstein/pseuds/Brynstein
Summary: What happened to cause Mulder and Scully to break up?The events leading up to Scully's departure as told by her experiences.She writes a poem in a notebook she hides under the sink. All of the poems in there are addressed in some way to Mulder (a bit like how she wrote to him in her diary when she fell ill with cancer and when she was out in Africa), except poems are abstract in their nature so she can better conceal the thoughts she is expressing, lest he discover them and understand their meaning.Mulder does find this book and then all hell breaks loose.
Relationships: Fox Mulder & Dana Scully, Fox Mulder/Dana Scully
Series: Waiting For Tomorrow [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1742395
Comments: 4
Kudos: 31





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Trigger Warning: Graphic depiction of vomiting. Mild violence. Some implications of a sexual nature.
> 
> As with most things lately, I was inspired to write this from reading other stuff of a similar nature. It's a curse.  
> I ended up writing a poem from Scully's point of view, but it got me thinking about the consequences if Mulder found the poem and what had caused Scully to write it in the first place. Thus, a story was born.

Dana stood in the shower, the scorching hot water gushing down her head and back. The spray invaded her face, tickling her eyes and nose, pooling at her mouth. She breathed in fits and starts, adamant that the water should cleanse her of the day's turmoil. Three surgeries later and she was still strong and sure. The buzz was gradually wearing off as it did at the same time every day: when thoughts of home crept into her mind.

Strong and sure.

Her neck ached. Her shoulders and her back ached. Her arms and legs ached all the way down to her aching feet. It was times like these that she would relish the journey home, just to feel his hands work all of the sores out of her body.

The water concealed the tears falling, as now the prospect of returning home seemed more daunting than ever. She was silent in her cries, shoulders barely shuddering until she heard the door to the changing room open. She pulled herself together. Strong and sure. She stepped out, towel wrapped around her as she fussed with her underwear.

In the locker room, a huddle of women had just entered, chatting about the success of the day. She smiled when they congratulated her on her performance in surgery. They invited her out for a drink with some other colleagues, which she gracefully declined. She acted as they knew her to be: stoic, strong and sure.

She dressed in the suit she had arrived in: a smart navy number with shoes to match and a pale blue shirt. Her hands glided down her jacket, smoothing out the creases, watching in the mirror of the locker door as the suit fitted her form and accented all of her features. Dana was sure she was the only one that noticed these days.

It was already dark out and the winter air was stale and biting. Her footsteps echoed in the car park, pacing towards the inevitable. She opened the door and sat in the driver's seat– an occurrence rare in the motion of her life. The engine started, rumbling as she made her way away from the hospital and down the inevitable road home.

.....

The gravel crunched under the tires of the long driveway up to their unremarkable house. Her stomach fell into a pit when she saw the same single light shining through the window of the study, the rest of their home a whisper of death.

She wrapped her long coat around her, clutching at the warmth as she made her way up the steps. The door creaked open and then shut again behind her. The keys clinked as they landed in the bowl on the side. She sighed and took off her coat, considering whether to announce her arrival. 

"I'm home!" she eventually shouted.

A vague scuffle and a grunt made itself known from behind the study door. It could have been mistaken for nothing.

She progressed towards the kitchen with thoughts of making something edible before she spent the night alone and went to bed.

.....

In the morning, the winter sun didn't stream through the windows. It was as dark and cold as the night before it. The void pulled her out of unconsciousness, programming her for the day ahead. She lifted his heavy arm from around her abdomen and sat up on the edge of their bed. Her feet dangled off the side, just touching the floor. She stood slowly, the bed creaking under her movements. He stirred from his sleep, looking up to acknowledge her as she groggily walked away. 

In the bathroom, she followed the same routine, filling the sink with water, sometimes warm, sometimes not. She scratched her skin with soap and a flannel, taking extra care to rub her face raw. She followed with the toothbrush and toothpaste, mercilessly cleansing her mouth of the old morning breath. She hid herself behind her elegant clothes. And she left to go to the hospital.

.....

By midday, it felt like a week had passed. Everyone was buzzing; the atmosphere was electric. A surgery complete: a success. She stood surrounded by doctors and surgeons and anaesthetists, all peeling their gloves off as she peeled her gloves off. Her fingers itched to get free and breathe again. They firmly traced around her back, toying with the sash to untie her scrubs. Glancing at the clock with a smile, thoughts of chicken caesar salad migrated their way from her brain down to her stomach. She removed her apron and then her cap, liberally shaking her hair loose, and sighed in relief; free at last.

The noise in the canteen wrapped Dana like a security blanket. It was comfy and cosy, offering a place of protection, a place to hide in plain sight. She gradually trudged forward, one foot in front of the other, snaking around until she was greeted with an array of rich aromas and alluring delicacies. She chose her favourite- the salad. 

Across the room, a group of her colleagues waved her over. She hesitated for half a second before joining them at their table. She talked and smiled and laughed occasionally at the half-decent jokes. And before she knew it, her break was over.

.....

Dana stood in the shower, the scorching hot water gushing down her head and back. The spray invaded her face, tickling her eyes and nose, pooling at her mouth. She breathed in fits and starts, adamant that the water should cleanse her of the day's turmoil. She was still strong and sure.

Strong and sure.

Her neck ached. Her shoulders and her back ached. Her arms and legs ached all the way down to her aching feet. It was times like these that she would relish the journey home, just to feel his hands.

The water concealed the tears falling. She was silent in her cries, shoulders shuddering, the prospect of returning home daunting. Strong and sure.

In the locker room, a huddle of women had just entered, chatting about the success of the day. She smiled when they congratulated her on her performance in surgery. She acted as they knew her to be: stoic, strong and sure.

She dressed in the suit she had arrived in. Her hands glided down her jacket, smoothing out the creases, watching in the mirror as the suit fitted her form and accented all of her features. Dana was sure she was the only one that noticed these days.

It was already dark out and the winter air was stale and biting. She opened the door and sat in the driver's seat. The engine started, rumbling as she made her way away from the hospital and down the inevitable road.

.....

The gravel crunched under the tires of the long driveway up to their unremarkable house. Her stomach fell into a pit, their home a whisper of death.

She made her way up the steps. The door creaked open and then shut again behind her. The keys clinked. She sighed. She took off her coat, considering whether to announce her arrival. 

"I'm home!" she eventually shouted.

Nothing.

She progressed towards the kitchen. She spent the night alone and went to bed.

.....

In the morning, the void pulled her out of unconsciousness, programming her for the day ahead. She lifted his heavy arm from around her abdomen and sat up on the edge of their bed. She stood slowly, the bed creaking under her movements. He stirred from his sleep as she groggily walked away.

In the bathroom, she filled the sink with water, sometimes warm, sometimes not. She scratched her skin with soap and a flannel. She mercilessly cleansed her mouth of the old morning breath. She hid herself behind her elegant clothes. She left to go to the hospital.

.....

By midday, a week had passed. A surgery complete: a success. She stood surrounded by doctors and surgeons and anaesthetists, all peeling their gloves off. She peeled her gloves off. Her fingers itched to get free and breathe again. They traced around her back, to untie her scrubs. Glancing at the clock, thoughts of chicken caesar salad migrated their way from her brain down to her stomach. She removed her apron and then her cap, shaking her hair loose, and sighed.

The noise in the canteen wrapped Dana. It was a place of protection, a place to hide in plain sight. She gradually trudged forward, one foot in front of the other, snaking around until she was greeted with an array of aromas and delicacies. She chose her favourite- the salad. 

Across the room, a group of her colleagues waved her over. She hesitated for a second before joining them at their table. She talked. And before she knew it, her break was over.

.....

Dana stood in the shower, the scorching hot water gushing down her head and back. She breathed in fits and starts, adamant that the water should cleanse her. She was still strong and sure.

Strong and sure.

Her neck ached. Her shoulders and her back ached. Her arms and legs ached all the way down to her aching feet.

The water concealed the tears falling. She cried, shoulders shuddering. She pulled herself together. Strong and sure.

In the locker room, a huddle of women had entered, chatting about the success of the day. She smiled. She acted as they knew her to be: stoic, strong and sure.

She dressed in the suit she had arrived in. Her hands glided down her jacket, watching in the mirror as the suit fitted her form and accented all of her features. 

Dana was sure she was the only one that noticed these days.

It was already dark out. The winter air was stale and biting. She opened the door and sat in the driver's seat. The engine started, rumbling as she made her way away from the hospital.

.....

Her stomach fell into a pit, their home a whisper of death.

She made her way up the steps. The door creaked open and then shut again behind her. She sighed. She took off her coat.

Nothing.

.....

The void pulled her out of unconsciousness. She sat up on the edge of their bed. She stood, the bed creaking under her movements. She groggily walked away.

In the bathroom, she filled the sink with water, sometimes not. She scratched her skin with soap and a flannel. She cleansed her mouth. She hid herself behind her clothes. She left to go to the hospital.

.....

By midday, a week had passed. A surgery complete. She stood surrounded by doctors and surgeons and anaesthetists, all peeling their gloves off. She itched to get free and breathe again. Glancing at the clock, she removed her apron and then her cap and sighed.

The noise in the canteen wrapped Dana. It was a place to hide in plain sight. She gradually trudged forward, one foot in front of the other. She chose the salad. 

Across the room, her colleague waved her over. She hesitated.

Before she knew it, her break was over.

.....

She stood in the shower, the scorching hot water gushing down her head and back. She breathed in fits and starts.

Her neck ached. Her shoulders and her back ached. Her arms and legs ached all the way down to her aching feet.

The water concealed the tears falling. She cried, shoulders shuddering.

In the locker room, a huddle of women had entered, chatting about the day. She acted as they knew her to be: stoic.

She dressed in the suit she had arrived in.

It was dark out. The winter air was biting. She opened the door and sat in the driver's seat. The engine started. She made her way away from the hospital.

.....

Her stomach fell into a pit, their home a whisper of death.

She made her way up the steps. The door creaked open and then shut again behind her.

Nothing.


	2. Chapter 2

"Care to join me?" she asked accusatorily as he walked past. It wasn't invitational as it had once been, nor was it courteous. The pathogens of his disease had rendered it perfunctory long ago, spoken only because there was nothing else to say.

He opened the fridge, eyes listlessly grazing the shelves with disinterest. He finally settled for some milk, drinking straight from the bottle before he indulged her request.

"What for?" he mumbled characteristically curt.

"Food."

"Why would I do that?" 

She couldn't tell if there was genuine sincerity in his intentions or not. He always sounded the same: low, gruff, and monotone.

"You used to," she muttered under her breath.

He stopped on his return to his office. He didn't face her, he just stood in the middle of the floor.

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"Mulder, please don't plead ignorance with me, I'm tired." She sighed before trying one last time. "Mulder, don't go back. Please, sit down. I'm begging you."

"Can't." His feet continued their familial trudge away from her. "Work to do."

"All you do is work. What about me, here, now?" The desperation in her voice was adamant. It must have been what made him turn around.

"If I don't work, Scully, then they win. What then? I'm doing this for you. I'm doing it for us."

She tried to remain calm but grievance was rising in her tone. "This isn't us, Mulder, can't you see that?"

He stormed towards her, each footstep shuddering, rattling the fear in her skull. His hands slammed down on the table, punctuating his intolerance of her. He shouted.

"No, can't you see, Scully?! You never trust me. It's always about you. You never stop to consider the sacrifices I'm making for the both of us. I'm saving us, Scully! That's what I work so tirelessly doing, not that you care anymore."

It wasn't often that he shouted and it scared her. It made her shrink into her seat, reminding her of a little girl she hoped she had left a long time ago.

He lowered his voice, searching her face with despairing incredulity. "Did you ever even care at all?"

It hurt her when he properly looked at her like that because he only did it to scrutinise her integrity. His adoration had been replaced by condemnation and there was nowhere to hide. She had once stood tall in his eyes; now looking into them made her feel so small.

"How dare you." She rose from her seat, visibly shaking from the slap of his words. "How dare you tell me I don't care and don't ever talk to me about sacrifices. You weren't there when I needed you the first time and you'd be damned if you were there to protect us the second!"

"No, this isn't about William. Don't bring him into this."

"This is family! He is family!" Tears soaked her cheeks. They glistened, showing so much pure emotion it hurt.

"You gave up that responsibility."

He was calm, controlled, returned to his monotone self. The quiet truth was worse than all his shouting. Like his hand was wrapped around hers, driving the shard she had created into her heart. Again. And again. With each replay of his words through her mind. _You gave up that responsibility_. Again and again.

Before she knew it, she had thrown her dinner to the floor. Porcelain and glass shattered, scattering out of control. The tajine and the red wine soaked like blood deep into the wooden floor. The wound was raw and gaping.

"You left us."

She heard the sound flesh smacking skin. Then she felt the harsh, naked sting on her cheek. Then she was aware his suffocatingly hot breath still inches from her face.

She didn't know why the idea flashed across her mind. Her breathing was still ragged in awe of everything. He had never crossed that line, but in her desperation, all she could think of was her fingers weaving through his hair.

His heat was still radiating in flames around him, so close that they licked her face. She daren't look up at him, fearful that his eyes were as dark as she imagined them to be. She swallowed. This was the first time that he had been this close to her in months and she was crumbling right before him. She felt outside of herself. She focused on his lips still trembling. Something possessed her to reach up and touch them like a child exploring the innocence of a soft flower. The brush of her fingers was eerily soft. He grabbed her wrist and pulled her flush against his heaving chest. Her eyes widened, finding his smouldering above her. Her lips parted in shock, confusion and arousal but before she massacred him with her caress, she broke free, running for the stairs.


	3. Chapter 3

It wasn't the first time Dana had fled to the only room in the house with a lock. She sat behind the door with bated breath, waiting for him to follow, waiting for him to leave, waiting for him to do anything, anything but retreat to his sanctuary while she hid in hers.

She counted her breaths, sure that he had settled back into the dust of his papers. Their house was silent. The echoes of their words rang still in her ears. She strained past his words ghosting her memory, listening. The thunderous gallop of her heart pounded through her ears and stomach, making her wretch. She desperately crawled with haste to the toilet basin, swallowing back the saliva, denying the intolerable pain. She counted and waited, counted and waited.

The suffering of a torturous wait only worsened her indignation. Her breathes became shaky convulsions of despair. Tears that flowed gnawed her insides, but to no avail. She stopped counting and stopped waiting, instead, forcing the agony upon herself by her own volition– her own hand controlling the game. She twisted her intestines, pumped her stomach, watching the contents of the meal she had cooked blur into the bowl: a perfect, romantic tagine for one, accompanied with red wine and solitude. The bile scorched her throat, leaving hoarse rasping breaths in its wake. She took conviction in the ambivalent pleasure of her hurt and wrath. In this tiny damp world, she could control who hurt her. She wondered if he could hear her in pain, hear her unbridled sobbing.

Would he come running up the stairs?

Would he break down the door just to cradle her in his strong, encompassing arms?

Would she laugh at how his beard scratched her cheek when he nuzzled her?

She expelled exasperated air from her lungs. She bit her lip and held her breath. Her shoulders still shuddered silently as the tears pooled in her eyes and crested her cheeks.

She rose steadily, straightening herself out in front of the medicine cabinet mirror. A reflection so alien stared back at Dana. It's red, bloodshot eyes regarded her in disdain. It's aged and blotchy skin stretched over a crudely carved bone structure: all the angles razor and offensive. It's washed-out, red hair tousled in long sinews around her face. She blinked away the image, replacing it with an engulfing nightmare of darkness.

She pulled at the mirrored door apathetically, blindly reaching for the toothbrush and toothpaste inside. Just another chore. Just another day. Her arm fell limply by her side after she nudged the door shut, forgetting that she needed it to squeeze the tube's contents onto her brush. Her head listed and her eyebrows groggily raised at her conundrum. The whole exercise was painstakingly taxing in effort: every modicum of energy one she didn't have.

She slumped against the bathtub with her toothbrush in her mouth, aimlessly exploring each tooth, her gums, her tongue: something he had once done. Another heavy breath escaped its cage. She craved him. She craved his touch, his smell, his voice, and his smile. Closing her eyes, she listened to his laughter conjured from the deepest recesses of her memory. It had been so long since either of them had laughed that she no longer knew if that was what it sounded like.

She cradled her knees to her chin, thinking of all the things she would say given half a chance and how easy it would be to remain tight-lipped. Be the coward. Lie. It was a role she had learned to play very well. She reached for the cupboard of cleaning products, fumbling about for her notepad and, not for the first time, put pen to paper.

.....

She went to bed alone that night. It was empty in their cold bed but she liked it like that: the familiarity of it was comforting. She sprawled across it all arms and legs, burning in the cool sheets. Tossing and turning like a flagellant, she eventually fell into unconscious oblivion.

..... 

It was dark outside when she woke; the kind of dark that is the thickest and the bleakest. Was it the dead of night? Or the early hours of the morning? She could no longer tell. Everything felt like the dead of night now, even when the sun streamed in through the blinds.

She trudged downstairs, careful not to wake him. Around every corner, every shadow appeared lurking, concealing her daemons. In her weary state, she imagined them personified: big and bulky, scales and worts, eyes and fangs, drooling at the mouth. She scoffed at their puny nature; she had fought more insidious monsters like the conspiracies of men and won.

Or maybe she hadn't.

Getting a glass of water, she meandered around the food and broken pottery still on the floor. She slumped on the couch and sleepily sipped, feeling the cool liquid trickling down her raw throat. She pulled her knees up under her chin and turned sideways, falling back asleep. 


	4. Chapter 4

Mulder saw her stir in the corner of his eye on his way to the bathroom. She looked so peaceful and beautiful. Her soft snores followed him up the stairs, a small echo of them in his trail.

He stumbled into the bathroom and picked up his toothbrush by the sink. He looked at it for a minute, remembering the first time his toothbrush had earned its residency by her own. He finally decided that the bristles had been flattened beyond use and chucked it in the vague direction of the bin. A groan escaped his throat as he realised he had no idea where the toothbrushes were kept. He started unceremoniously plundering the cabinets and draws, uncaring for the commotion he caused. Banging and shuddering shook throughout the house. He briefly wondered if she would hear him and come rushing in.

Crouching down, he looked under the sink, past the bottles of bleach, but did not find the toothbrushes. Instead, his fingers glanced an old, worn, leather-bound book. He stilled with curiosity, quietly withdrawing it to inspect it further. He sat on the cold tiled floor, his back to the bath, as he turned over the book in his hands. The pages crinkled as he flicked through them. Stopping at the latest entry, he began to read.

_I am waiting for Tomorrow,_  
_The day after next,_  
_Where I can see what I remember._  
_A curse that's left me vexed._

_Fairy tales console me,_  
_But Tomorrow never holds._  
_Wearied in pursuit,_  
_Today is growing old._

_Twighlight offers no hope,_  
_No progression of the mind._  
_Calloused, bitter to the night,_  
_An endless paradigm._

_The endless night is black,_  
_Thick and oozing cold._  
_Dawn breaks and days roll away,_  
_But Tomorrow never holds._

_The brightest light, the boldest warmth_  
_Our sun that never gave,_  
_So much night, that to our system_  
_I've become a slave._

_Walls that build and bind us,_  
_Cages with chains we forged_  
_Of unspoken tortured cruelties,_  
_Of unspoken remorse._

_How much have we lost?_  
_Our burning hearts incendiary,_  
_The brightest light, the boldest warmth_  
_Burns a piece within me._

_Does your mind not wander?_  
_Not go travelling back?_  
_To when it was bathed in light,_  
_And not so formidably black?_

_The brightest lie, the boldest warmth_  
_The gift our son never was,_  
_The night is finally closing in_  
_And burns the peace within us._

_I am praying for Tomorrow._  
_I hope God is playing fair._  
_And when I find Tomorrow,_  
_I trust to see you there_.

His eyes fell off the bottom of the page. He felt dumb and drunk, a million stale thoughts stagnating in his mind. He couldn't think. Only half-thoughts captured. The puzzle scripted in her elegant hand lay scattered in front of him.

_Dark. Cold. Burning._

_Depressed. Uncaring. Angry._

He hastily stood up and staggered back. His hand gripped the side of the bath in support. He rushed downstairs, the toothbrushes long forgotten. Every step punched into him. The sound of his feet thudding against the planks of wood were unmatched to the thrumming of his blood. His vision was hazy, splotchy around the corners. He was swimming in complete darkness and an utter bright, white light. A headache pounded through him, but he strode through the disorientation taking possession.

He saw a distant image of her sitting up on the sofa, hand eloquently hovering over a glass of water on the table. She defensively stood up, terrified of his intense expression. He made a beeline for her, shaking the book in his hand.

"Is this what you think of me, Scully?!"

The haze of the morning sun shone through his eyes, catching like fire. His look upon her burnt as though she were a sinner tied to the stake; guilty in his eyes like the eye of God. Not daring to move, she focused on the chain of delicate gold resting around her neck; a source of strength and a warden to embers of his anger. She had strength against his strength; belief against his belief.

He continued in his desperation. "That I don't love you? That I don't care? That I poison you?!"

She tried to grab it, but he held it above his head. Her jawed clenched. Her teeth ached like old infections whilst sirens took up ringing in her ears. Her fists furled and unfurled by her sides. Her nails dug into the flesh of her palms. His words a fresh slap to her cheek.

Tears started to well in his eyes and she could see the pleading through his shouts. "How can you say those things, Scully?! How can you say those things an-and mean it, and not even say them to me?"

Her eyes followed the book as it skidded across the floor, incognizant of his baring over her, her small shoulders grappled tightly in his large hands.

His words were marked with hurt. He felt a burning ache in his chest of betrayal. "You were the only one, Scully. I thought you were different. I thought you understood. Now, this?! After all we have been through, y-you just- just stab another knife in my back? Why?"

Then she realised she had to say it before he did.

"I'm leaving." Her voice was hoarse, barely above a whisper.

He dug bitter deep, lancing at her to shield himself. "I'm sorry, I didn't hear that. Perhaps you should write it in your little book!" But in cutting at her he wounded himself, inflaming the ache.

She squared up to him, meeting his eyes. If she was going to do this, she had to mean it. "Mulder, I am leaving."

His face suddenly dropped and his voice was quieter, almost soft. "What? You can't leave."

"It's exactly what I'm doing." 

She shook free of his grasp, still looking him in the eye. His hand, instead, brushed a strand of sleep-ruffled hair behind her ear. Her heart quickened for all the wrong reasons and she flinched from his touch.

"You can't leave: you live here."

His hand stroked her cheek, soothing last night's pain. She reached up and pulled it from its place.

"No, Mulder, I don't." 

The truth was a hard taste to swallow, but it had been true for some time now: longer than she liked to imagine. It wasn't living; it was barely surviving. She was afraid of leaving, but she was more afraid of staying in a house she couldn't call home.

"But you can't leave, Scully. I don't understand!"

She moved past him, strong and sure, taking to the stairs. Each punched through her, one at a time, on her slow march to find a suitcase.


	5. Chapter 5

Upstairs, the morning breeze drifting around made Dana shiver. The sun lit up the russet of the leaves on the trees outside the window. The warm colours of Autumn crept into the room through sunbeams. She walked through the dust dancing with the colour, staring up at the tall, wooden wardrobe, a clunky piece of ugly furniture they had bought together upon moving in. She dragged a chair forcefully across the floorboards to it, trying to drown out her emotions and the sound of his pacing footsteps below.

She climbed up on the chair, fumbling about for her old suitcase she kept there. It landed on the floor with a thump.

She changed her clothes and then began the systematic ritual of packing. Socks, knickers, bras in the top left corner. Neatly folded silk pyjamas next to them. Work clothes, suits and hangers all on the right. Lazy pants, sweaters and t-shirts below her pyjamas. Everything was orderly. Everything had its place.

Her hands scoped an empty drawer, patting around for any clothes she had missed during her first interrogation of the dresser. She stopped at the feel of familiar soft cotton and pulled out his Oxford t-shirt from her draw. Rubbing the material between her fingers, she let herself indulge in the idea that she could take it, that he wouldn't notice, that the smell of him woven into the fabric wouldn't make her cry at night. Biting her cheek, she scrunched the material in her fist, bringing it up to her nose. She hesitated, but gently brushed the cloth against her nose and lips. She clutched at it, willing herself to let go. She needed to let go.

Eventually, she put it away, pressed up to the back of the drawer, not knowing if she would ever feel it again.

In the bathroom, there was a littering of open drawers and cupboards, the evidence laid out of a scattered mind. She sighed, the mess irrationally irritating her. She bent down, starting to pick up the toppled bottles and products that belonged under the sink. The sink where privacy had been kept for so long. Maybe too long.

She had broken him with her words. She hadn't meant to but she had. Somehow, it was all her fault again. His expression of betrayal stung at the back of her eyelids as she closed her eyes to try and hide from it. Not just her words, but her desperate shouts and lies.

_"You left us!"_

_Be the coward. Lie._

In shielding herself she had wounded him.

And now she was leaving him.

Looking at the bottles in her hands, she gave in. She didn't know why she had started making it orderly. It wasn't her place to do so. She didn't live there anymore. She didn't have a place there anymore. Letting out a throat-ripping cry of frustration, she threw the trinkets of dissolution to the floor. They collided with the other objects, falling like pins.

She stiffened, shocked and scared by her violent outburst of temper. She stayed stood still, clenched muscles holding steadfast whilst icy torrents picked her veins. A wash of cold came over her, like a brief moment of shivering clarity amongst the fever. In its wake, she felt the warmth return to her skin, blood rising to the boil; a slow simmer of anguish and injustice; complete truth twined with the inevitability of a frayed path destined to walk.

Avoidance was not an option, yet all thoughts about how and why and what if were pushed to the side in favour of a single-track mind, unthinking to survive. There was an objective, a task to be completed. The routine continued.

Weaving through the rubble of destruction, she picked out a fresh toothbrush and tube of paste, along with a bar of soap and deodorant. Clinical and clean.

Purse, phone and charger were carefully placed on top of everything. Shoes and coats and car keys and then she could leave.

She sighed.

There was nothing personal of anything she packed. No books, no ornaments, no photos. No little kitsch trinkets that marked a life well lived. She felt like she was on the run again, unsure of who she was.

She went back to the wardrobe, the door stiffly hinged and complaining with a groan when she opened it. Inside was dark, a stark contrast to the rest of the room glowing in the morning sun. It absorbed the light, drawing her in with it. Sat cross-legged in front of it, her fingers searched the bottom to retrieve a relic from her past. A small shoebox emerged. Poking out of the top, too large for its cage, was the mobile of stars she had chosen because it reminded her of his father. With the box sat in her lap, she took off the lid, fighting the blurry vision. One by one, she took out the old baby grows and knitted hats like empty shells. In amongst the memories was a tiny cut-out of her baby frozen in time.

His small smile only made her chest ache. She no longer knew if it was worse to imagine him the twelve-year-old learning to play baseball or to push all thoughts of him aside. Both elicited a pang of dreadful guilt she couldn't cope with. Not a single day had passed where he wouldn't infiltrate his mother's thoughts and seize all control. Every day had been a day without William. Now, every day was going to be a day without either of them. But hadn't it been like that for a while already?

Head bowed in her hands, she started to sob silently, shakes racking through her body. She felt like a deserter giving up all over again. She had finally shattered them both and she couldn't stay to pick up the pieces.

A creak in the floorboards came from the doorway. She whipped around, caught off guard and instantly on edge. She quickly wiped her eyes, refusing herself the luxury of vulnerability. He looked lost like a stray, caught out in the rain on a cold, dark night. Hunched in contrition, he loitered a few beats before heading back downstairs.

She put the contents of the box back where it belonged, hidden in the wardrobe, preserved in years of darkness and dust. Saving the photograph, she placed it in the centre of the desk in their bedroom, hoping he would find it and understand what she meant.

She tried to ignore him when she went downstairs, but her eye caught him through the open door to his office. He was sat huddled on the floor as she had been. She quietly grabbed her coats and shoes, taking them back upstairs with her, feeling the need to tread softly like she was intruding.

He stood, mellow, in the office doorway. His sullen features betrayed how she felt. He simply watched her walk by, feeling powerless to everything he saw. He was still there when she appeared at the top of the stairs, still stood motionless, waiting for her.

His eyes followed the track of her feet on her slow descent, not bearing to look her in the eye. When her feet were on the floor in front of him, he tried his chance of reconciliation.

His voice croaked. "I don't understand. Please, make me understand."

With each tick of the clock on the wall, he felt himself waning, his fear of the answer waxing. Her hesitant reply only echoed his own agitation.

"I don't think I can."

He nodded.

"I..."

"I know." She didn't: she never did anymore. But maybe for the first time, she felt akin to him, to what he must feel: utter hopelessness, but the human need to hope. She was afraid of what he would say, that she would become undone by the persuasive lull of his words. Her mind kept straight: single-tracked, needing to stay true to her word; a promise held in chaos.

He lifted his head, reading her, needing to know, but he left her unscrutinised. "Last time you said it wouldn't happen again. We would sort this out."

She nodded, biting her lip, head hung in shame. She remembered holding the same suitcase, stood on the same spot, having the same conversation a year or so ago. Four seasons had passed over their unremarkable house, deluging them in a myriad of changing colours. Each leaf on a tree had its own growth whilst they had remained stunted, falling back into the grey around one another: their destined road. She ignored her eyes stinging sharp like the winter chill, instead offering a thin smile and a shrug to explain what she couldn't express.

Clutching her bag, she turned, shaky legs carrying her one foot in front of the other. She stepped past the threshold, stopping in her tracks. A hefty thought consumed her. Contemplating, she let go of a suffocating breath.

Facing towards him, she gathered fast scattering confidence, choking out a final goodbye. "I still love you."

It sounded eerie and empty, a fractured reflection of its meaning. She hoped he could hear past the hollow facade of the sentiment. Perhaps they still knew each other well enough to dig deeper than the shallow surface.

He nodded and smiled sadly.

She turned around for the final time and walked away. She hadn't seen him in a long time but the hardest part was not knowing if she would ever see him again. 


End file.
